


HSWC 2014 Bonus Round One Fills

by sonicSymphony



Series: HSWC 2014 Bonus Round Fills [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Amputation, Demonic Possession, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, black flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 10,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonicSymphony/pseuds/sonicSymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A variety of ships in many different situations, all written for the first bonus round of the Homestuck Shipping World Cup 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skin Deep; Karkat/Terezi

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to move everything into one story, because all the separate stories were clogging up my AO3 account.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember when Terezi smelled Karkat's blood under his skin?

You smelled the red first.  
  
It’s such a gorgeous color. Even though it could be tied to things you scorned and hated, you were always able to remind yourself about the things you love instead—your glasses, chalk, team, and even your ancestor (Neophyte  _Red_ glare, it’s like you and that decadent color were destined from the beginning). Through the swirls and smears of color, red has always been the one you could identify immediately as it fills your olfactory receptors and bleeds into your mind.  
  
You smelled Karkat second.  
  
Confusion has never been your favorite emotion. It’s fun when you know you’ll come out on the other side triumphant, sure, but when it  _blindsides_ you like this, you’re left blinking at nothing and trying to get your bearings. You think of the walls of gray text that fill up your husktop screen and his dumb, shouty, defensive rants that could go on and on if you indulged in him. He was adorable when you poked and prodded, and you always considered yourself one step ahead of any ideas he might have in his head, but this…  
  
Of course you had your suspicions. It would be unprofessional of you to not do any snooping in regards to one Karkat Vantas. Even if he was a mutant (and he  _is_ , you can smell the blood, rancid in his veins), he wasn’t a criminal. Not in your mind, at least.  
  
You want to tease him about it, to mock him in such a way that he’d know your opinion of him was not altered. You want behave towards him like you always have, because meeting him for the first time in person is no excuse to suddenly treat him like someone else; he’d know something was up.  
  
Before you realize you’re doing so, you promise to keep his secret for him. You won’t tell him you know either, since you’ll get a bit of leverage over him—that’s how you justify it to yourself, at least—and you won’t have to face the awkward, accusatory talk you believe is coming.  
  
“Hey, Alternia to Pyrope,” Karkat says, fingers snapping by your ear. His voice isn’t loud like you thought it would be: it’s rough and low but surprisingly normal in volume. “Or I guess it’s LOPAH now? Fuck, I’m never going to get these acronyms straight.”  
  
You cackle, nipping at his demanding fingers that are still lingering close to your ear. “I knew you wouldn’t have the brain capacity, o great leader.” Grabbing his wrist, you tug him towards a colorful blur in the distance, ready to get some grist. “Come on, I just upgraded my cane-sword and I’m  _dying_  to use it!”  
  
He puts up too much resistance for it to be sincere, and you laugh at his insults and dodge his thorny quips, retaliating with some of your own. All the while, his blood burns your fingertips, flooding your senses. It’s all-consuming. Before you reach your destination, you throw caution to the wind and pull him close, inhaling deeply against his throat.  
  
It’s surprising to you how fast he yanks away. You feel the tension in the air, and before he can screech  _what the hell, Terezi?_  you laugh and say, “You smell like sweat, you need two hours in the ablution trap!”  
  
That’s enough to calm him from the rage. Others might not have been able to sense the drop, because he still acts offended and angry, but you know him better than most.  
  
The smell of his blood seared your insides, from your nostrils to your throat to your heart. It was the first time you ever smelled him, up close and personal, and you want to make sure it won’t be the last.


	2. Pluck; The Dolorosa & Tavros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember how Tavros pupated with wings in the caverns... and the Dolorosa made the decision to pull them off so that he might live a quiet and (relatively) long life, unlike his ancestor had?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could never be canon, but I like the idea of it.

He is so small, and yet the statement he makes by simply breathing is  _gargantuan_.

It has been a very long time since you last saw wings on a troll. Even back then it was simply a glimpse; slaves weren’t allowed to stare at anything for too long, let alone the Empire’s morality pet. Somehow, his mutation was once a statement of greatness, of power. Now all it could ever be is a mark of insurgency.

The squirming brownblood in your hands knows nothing of the legacy he is sure to carry, but you know more than enough to compensate. Life has taught you in devastating ways how resistance is futile, and loving someone who is fundamentally wrong causes nothing but agony.  _He needs to be culled_ , you tell yourself, stroking the fine edge of one of the delicate, filmy wings sprouting from the grub’s back. He does not resist like you thought he would; he burrows closer to your palms, releasing a soft purr that makes you think of a time long ago when you saved another mutant, another one of the scorned trolls of this wretched society.

You tried to save someone once, smuggling him out of the caverns and creating a new life for the two of you. You will not do it again.

Your son would be ashamed of you.

 _Cull him_ , you urge, but there’s no bite in the thought. Instead, you continue stroking the poor thing’s wings, your stomach turning and twisting as the grub reacts with chirps and nuzzles and you know this one will be  _kind_ , and Kankri taught you several times over that kindness is the rarest attribute of trolls.

Grabbing one of the wings tightly in your fingertips, you pull. It comes free with disgusting ease, like you’re pulling a piece of meat off a cluckbeast, and the grub squeals and wails and bites your finger. Tossing the bloody hunk aside to burn later, you yank off the other one to match, and the grub’s squeals return with renewed vigor. You’re not sure if the drips running down the side of your hand are from his blood or yours or his tears, but it makes you feel ill. The other wing falls right next to the original one, and hold the little brownblood closer.

 _You’ve saved him_ , you remind yourself as he cries, curling around your fingers tightly as if he’s already forgotten your hands were the ones that tormented him. He will live because of you, and perhaps he will live a long, prosperous life, unlike that of his progenitor.

While you waste away in slavery, you think about him every once in a while, and wonder what he’s made of himself. You hope he didn’t show any other signs of mutation or fall prey to nasty folk or experience an abundance of hardship.

You hope he found what it is like to be free.


	3. Give and Take; Eridan/Feferi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember when Feferi started getting so fed up with Eridan's antics to win her back that she began feeling some very black feelings for him?

You’re sick of his lack of respect.

He  _says_  he’s over you breaking up with him and getting with Sollux. He  _says_ he’d like to be friends, even after all this. He  _says_ he’s done feeling bitter about the past, and yet here he is, standing in front of you and making subtle insinuations about your matesprit that you do  _not_ like. You’ve tried to stay civil with him, you really have, but a certain kind of pressure has been building inside your chest that you want to let out.   
  
Eridan Ampora was your best friend, your closest confidant, your moirail. He was needy enough to drain you, he still won’t take responsibility, and you  _hate_ that after everything, his feelings were never true like yours were.  
  
After thinking long and hard about it, you realize you hate him because of a lot of things, but that’s at the very top of the list.  
  
And now he’s switched away from insulting Sollux and is trying to impress you with his dumb white science bullcarp, like that’s somehow impressive, PL—EAS——E. You used to indulge in him, back when you had an obligation to, but you find yourself cutting off his bragging with a sigh. “Do you  _really_  think that dumb magic stuff could win me back, Eridan?”  
  
He flounders and you giggle at his gaping mouth before he snaps it shut, scowling at the affront. He looks pissed on the outside, but you’ve known him long enough to see the hurt in his eyes. “Wow, someone woke up on the wrong side of the ‘coon this morning. Nice job being  _condescending_ there, Fef.”  
  
You hate that he knows you well enough to realize what will bother you, because it makes you remember that his part as your moirail wasn’t  _entirely_ half-assed. Just mostly. Taking a step forward, you move into his personal bubble so he has to lean back into the metal paneling of the wall to avoid getting too close. A rage ignites in your veins when his eyes flicker down to your chest and back to your face, because  _he doesn’t have the right_  to look at you like you’re his. Not anymore, not ever again.  
  
In order to satisfy the blackness creeping into your heart, he has to be yours.  
  
It’s not like it was when you were wigglers, saying words sworn in dripping pale that you didn’t understand. You assured each other that you’d be there through everything, belonging to each other and becoming a tool for the other’s betterment. This time, you want to teach him his place.  
  
You’re too close to him now, and he doesn’t like it, you can tell. He’ll like this next part, though, he  _has_ to—concupiscent was always his goal, wasn’t it? Wasn’t the idea of touching you and ravishing you the reason he stayed with you for so long?  
  
Oh you  _hate_ him. You hate him because you had the audacity to love him, and you let him eat you alive for too long.  
  
“You’ve always wanted to kiss me, haven’t you?” you breathe, letting the words flow right next to his earfin, and the tremor your words trigger makes you laugh. Even to you, it sounds mean-spirited. “Here’s your opportunity.”  
  
You see the tears in his eyes, and the part of you that will always be pale for him churns, gnawing at your insides and telling you this is  _wrong_. But your true feelings—the ones overwhelming you as you grip his wrists tight enough to bruise and slam them back against the wall over his head—burn stronger. He doesn’t yelp like you thought he would; instead his eyes blow wide, staring at you as if you’re a horrorterror like your lusus, and something in the deepest corner of your mind whispers for you to back off. You almost do, because yeah you hate him but you’re not an awful person that would force yourself on him (you’re not  _Eridan_ ).  
  
But then he jolts forward and practically crashes into your face, tearing at your bottom lip with his teeth as you dig your claws further into his wrists.  _Good_ , you think when he whimpers as you score lines down his arms. He made the first noise of pain, so you know you’ll win this.  
  
You gave him so much. Now it's your turn to take.


	4. Fabric Wars; Equius/Kanaya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember when Equius accidentally used Kanaya's best fabric as a towel?

“Equius.”  
  
The voice, deathly calm and low, comes from behind you, and you remove your face from the bundle of fabric that had been shielding it, your cracked glasses falling back onto your nose before you turn to look at the troll behind you. Kanaya’s hip is cocked, her fingers drumming the side that’s thrust outward and her pointy elbow looking more like a potential weapon than a body part. Through eyes narrowed into tiny slits, she stares you down, and even though she’s a midblood with no chance of overpowering you, sweat begins to bead on your forehead. “Yes?”  
  
She takes a deep breath through her teeth, and you listen to it hiss menacingly. Your brow wrinkles slightly in indignation, because she doesn’t have the  _right_  to be angry with you for any reason. You are her better, and whatever you’ve done to earn her ire, it certainly doesn’t excuse her current behavior.  
  
“What is that?”  
  
“Excuse me?” you question, fingers curling in the soft fabric in your hands.  
  
“Where did you get it?” she demands, pointing accusingly at your makeshift towel.  
  
“I do not have to answer that,” you say, since you’re just beginning to realize you’d picked it up near her computer, and there had been a sewing machine and other pieces of fabric nearby. Even if you  _did_  accidentally steal her cloth, she shouldn’t be this angry about it; she should’ve been pleased to serve you in such a way. If Sir Makara had taken something of yours to use, you would consider it the highest honor. “Now be on your way.”  
  
“That was my best fabric, Equius,” she growls, taking a step closer, “and you’ve ruined it.”  
  
Oh, that won’t do. Something dark begins to burn in your chest as you toss the hunk of cloth at her. It hits her hard enough that she stumbles back a step, making a face when she clutches it and feels the dampness. “There, you have it back now. Get me something else to use then.”  
  
“ _No_ ,” she bites, and you scowl, clenching your teeth. Before you can say anything else, she continues, “You are lucky I haven’t chainsawed you open, Zahhak. Please refrain from coming near my things in my future, or you will become intimately familiar with my strife specibus.”  
  
The threats feel empty, and you can see something besides disdain burning in her gaze. Turning on her heel, she flounces back to her computer and her sewing supplies, captchalogues everything, and strides to the transportalizer. As she disappears in a flash of light, you relax your jaw a bit and realize you’ve cracked another tooth. Sighing in annoyance, you ruminate on the topic of the last two minutes.  
  
…Oh my, you think you just blackflirted with Kanaya Maryam.  
  
If she will not fetch you a proper towel, you guess you must go find one yourself, because you definitely need one. It may also be in your best interest to track down Nepeta, as well. You’re in need of a feelings jam. Immediately.


	5. The Selfie; Eridan/Karkat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember when Karkat accidentally sent Eridan a selfie while trying to send it to someone else?

You’re surprised when your phone  _dings_  and it’s not Fef. Kanaya’s on holiday and the only other person who ever texts you is in your living room right now, so there isn’t anyone else in your contact list that indulges in the pleasure of talking to you. Stuffing the bottles of soda under your arm, you pull your phone out of your pocket, wondering who’s interrupting your video game date.  
  
To your surprise, it’s Kar. Since he’s just down the hall, you think it’s weird he didn’t just yell at you to get his point across, but when you open the message, what you see startles a laugh out of you.  
  
Eyes lidded in mock sensuality, he has your Xbox controller pinned daintily between his teeth, hand stroking his neck in a sign of vulnerability and his nose thrust in the air. I AM A REAL GAMER, the caption reads, and you download the image to keep forever. Kar never sends you selfies; maybe you should make this one your screensaver.  
  
Grabbing a bag of chips out of the pantry, you head back into the living room, plopping down on the couch next to him. Instead of posing provocatively and making doe eyes at the camera, he’s slouched into the cushions and kicking ass in Mortal Kombat. You deposit your snacks and drinks on the table and comment, “Nice picture you sent me, Kar.”  
  
His eyes narrow instantly, and his thumb presses ‘pause’ a bit  _too_ hard. “What the cherry-titted fuck are you talking about?” he questions.  
  
Raising your eyebrows, you absentmindedly drum your fingers on your phone through the fabric of your jeans, smirking slightly. “You are a _true_ gamer, I’ve never denied it.”  
  
Breath leaving him in an audible  _whoosh_ , he drops the controller and launches his tiny body towards you, catching you by surprise and tackling you off the couch. “ _Give me your phone!_ ” he demands, hands groping your thighs. “That wasn’t meant for your miserable, watery eyes, now hand it over so I can purge that picture from all of existence!”  
  
You fish your phone out of your pocket before he can, and use your height advantage on him, even though you’re both horizontal rather than standing. “If it wasn’t for me, who was it for?” you ask, voice teasing. You hope he doesn’t detect the tinge of jealousy.  
  
“I was fighting with Latula earlier, okay?” When he lunges for it yet again, his knee connects with your groin. Stars explode into supernovae as Kar triumphantly takes your phone from your loosened fingers, sitting back on his haunches and straddling you. “What’s your passcode?”  
  
“0223,” you groan, eyes squeezed pathetically shut as Kar deletes the text. “You just tried to fuckin’  _assassinate_ me.  _Christ_.”  
  
“Stop being melodramatic,” he says, swatting at your perfectly styled hair and carefully placing your phone on your cheek. “Now all you have to do is pretend you never saw that, and then I can kick your ass in Mortal Kombat.”  
  
“Fine, fine,” you concede. He gets up, extending a hand to pull you back onto your feet as well. You’re surprised he’s any help; you’re more than a head taller than him. As he plods back to the couch, you check your downloads folder.  
  
 _Cha-ching,_  you think, smiling at the pristine photo. If he beats you as thoroughly as he believes he will, that selfie is going on Facebook.


	6. Replacement; Equius/Eridan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember the time when Eridan lost his leg and Equius built him a replacement?

“You should have come to me immediately.”

Eridan is dripping with sweat, face paler than you’ve ever seen and expression pinched in agony. The oar he’s using to prop himself up does little for him; from what you can see, he should not have  _any_ weight on his leg, and yet he’s managed to hobble about ten feet from his skyhorse. You wonder how he got around before his lusus began to assist him.

“I thought it w-would go aw-way.” His impediment is less of an accent and more of a stutter now, and your stomach churns with pity as he tries to lean more on his makeshift crutch and almost falls. As carefully as you can muster, you catch him, pulling him into your arms and clutching him against your chest. He protests weakly, fingers curling in the fabric of your shirt, and you carry him to your workroom, clearing a table of metal parts with one arm while cradling him awkwardly in the other. When you lay him down, his bad heel hits the table with a hollow  _clang_ , and the screech he makes nearly rips you in half. Swallowing, you turn your back to fetch medical supplies just as he throws up noisily.

When you return, he’s not all there, eyes at half-mast and mouth open slightly. “Eq?” he questions faintly, eyes trying to focus on you but not quite making it. Belatedly, you realize his glasses are missing.

“Aurthour?” you call quietly, and your butler lusus comes to your elbow. “Please clean his… bodily fluids. They are beginning to smell.” He clops off to get the necessary cleaning utensils, leaving you alone with your injured matesprit.

Venturing closer to the table, you promise, “I’ll fix you,” gulping loudly. “I swear it.”

You start up an IV and knock him unconscious. Carefully, you cut off his ridiculous striped pants at the knee and examine the damage. The lacerations are deep and crusted with pus, with dark streaks snaking away from the wounds that you can easily identify as blood poisoning. He’d gotten the gouges hunting for lusii, he’d told you a few days prior, when he didn’t realize the stripebeast he’d been aiming at had a friend. You see puncture wounds from fangs as well, also reeking of infection, and your exhale rocks you to your very core.

Denying the urge to message Nepeta for emotional support, you get to work, prepping him for surgery. You don’t have a spare prosthetic on hand, but you are positive there is no way to save his leg, and if the infection spreads any further… well, you don’t want to think about  _what_ will happen.

As daybreak encroaches on your side of Alternia, you’ve incinerated the limb and the site has been properly bandaged. You had to do an open-flap amputation, because you’re worried that you didn’t cut away all of the infection, and you hate that you had to be the one to do the actual act this time instead of relying on Kanaya or someone with better fine motor control. Luckily, the anesthesia you had left over from Tavros’ surgery seems to have done its work, as Eridan is still unconscious.

Once you’ve washed your hands and changed your violet-tainted clothes, you begin working on his prosthetic.

 _This_ is your area of expertise. The hard part is over, and now you can experiment with biowires and mechanical parts and acute receptors. You try to keep him asleep most of the time, because if he were awake he’d wine about being uncomfortable and in pain and missing a part of himself, so to ease your guilt of not being able to do more, you make sure he’s sedated more often than not.

Soon, though, you have to let him return to the world of the living, and by that time you’re almost done with his artificial limb. The metal plating is shiny and expensive-looking, only the best quality for your pretentious matesprit, with his sign engraved on the ankle and every measurement perfect. He’ll hate it no matter what, you know, but at least it’s a bit more fashionable for him. You don’t care about any of that trendy garbage like he does, much to his chagrin, but since he’s going to be miserable for the next few perigees, you want to make this as easy as you possibly can for him.

“I guess it’s not  _that_  bad,” he sulks when you present it to him, and quite frankly, that’s a better response than what you were expecting. Lying it on the nightstand next to the concupiscent platform he’s been resting on for the past week, you cautiously slide next to him, sitting down near the edge. He scoots over and curls up against your side, and your arm around him is loose for fear of crushing him. “Thank you, Eq,” he says, lips moving against your throat.

“I am sorry that I could not do more,” you tell him, thumb stroking his shoulder blade through the fabric of his shirt. “I’ve made the replacement as close to the real thing as I possibly could.”

Nuzzling closer, you think you feel him smile into your neck. Your stomach twists, still unused to the novelty of Eridan Ampora making an expression that isn’t an acerbic scowl or a mean-spirited smirk, and you risk holding him just a little bit tighter. Later, he’ll try the prosthetic on and find that it works just fine, and he’ll go back to his duties with renewed vigor after too many weeks of rest. There’s something different, though: this time, you’ll be watching his back.


	7. Red Lobster; Feferi & Meenah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember when Meenah and Feferi received a lifetime ban from Red Lobster?

When Meenah was fighting with the server, you felt kind of bad. Your sister didn’t really have a right to yell at someone who was just running errands and not doing the actual cooking, and you’re at a table right near the front, so almost everyone in the restaurant knows what’s going on and are awkwardly going on with their meals. It was almost  _better_ , in your eyes, when the manager and cook got involved, because your poor server was able to return to her duties.  
  
“I bet this ain’t even  _crab_ ,” Meenah accuses, yanking a leg from her plate and pointing it threateningly at the cook’s chest. “It’s stringy and salty and saturated in butter and you can’t even taste the goddamn  _crustacean_ —”  
  
“If you don’t like our food, don’t eat here!” the manager exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. He’d tried being civil at first, but when it turned out Meenah was just going to be a huge bitch about everything, he changed tactics. “Plenty of upstanding citizens  _rave_ about our delicious wonders, and if some rich little  _brat_  would rather fight about it here than eat elsewhere—”  
  
“I came for the biscuits,” she interrupts, and that gives you an idea. Since they’re distracted, you properly implement it while they’re busy duking it out.  
  
After a few more lines of verbal sparring, Meenah grabs her phone and wallet, preparing to leave. “And one  _more_  thing, you need a bigger tank for those fucking lobster, because that  _can’t_ be humane.”  
  
She makes a sweeping arm gesture, pointing at the tank just five or so feet away. She didn’t have a good grip on her phone, so it goes flying and hits the tank. In stunned, horrified silence, you all watch as the crack the phone’s impact made spreads along the tank before the whole thing shatters, sending water and lobsters onto the floor.  
  
The cook and the manager run over immediately, forgetting about the two of you just long enough for Meenah to grab two hundred dollar bills, toss them on the table, grab your wrist (you quickly grasp the hem of your shirt to keep all of your treasures contained), and drag you from the establishment.  
  
“Feffy, why’re you running doubled over like you’re gonna puke?” she questions when you’re out of the danger zone, panting and leaning against the car while fishing for her keys in her shell-shaped purse.  
  
Beaming, you reveal your bounty. You used your shirt as a basket, and even though you’ll never be able to wear it again, it was worth it to see the pride in her expression before she cackles, throwing her head back and laughing harder than you’ve seen her laugh in a long time. “I stole the extra cheddar biscuits!” you giggle, jostling your load a little.   
  
“Oh my God,” she says when she catches her breath, hand braced on the hood of the car for support. “I knew there was a reason I loved you, guppy. Now c’mon, we’re heading home.”  
  
Your mother receives a call the next day, because they used the contact information in Meenah’s waterlogged phone to find Mom, and you’re both grounded for three months. She delivers the news to the two of you in your room, and once she’s gone you go in your closet and find the right bag. As you take out a cheddar bay biscuit and bite a huge chunk out of it, you think your escapade was  _definitely_ worth a lifetime ban from Red Lobster.


	8. Mermaid; Meenah/Eridan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember when Meenah went fishing one time and caught a big one?

After an hour and a half of fishing with no bites, something finally causes your rod to bend in a way that isn’t just a sinker getting caught in the surf or sand. Grinning, you stand, removing your feet from where they were propped on the side of the boat and heading to the stern, where your rod is beginning to go crazy. The reel starts to unwind, meaning this thing is large enough to put up a proper fight, so you lunge for the straining rod and try to pull in your catch.

This guy’s adamant, that’s for sure. If your equipment wasn’t top of the crop, you’d be fucked, but your rod, reel, and line are the best that money can buy. You’ve never had anything break or snap, and even if you’re pulling in a marlin or a grouper—there’s no way it could be any smaller; hell, maybe you hooked a whale—it should hold.

The fight lasts for twenty minutes before something hits the side of the boat with a thud and a splash. You let out a joyful hoot, grabbing a net and exclaiming, “Yeah, this fucker’s gotta be _huge_!”

When you look over the side, though, the net falls from your hands, your expression going slack with shock.

A hand with strange, purple-tinted skin and large pores that glow faintly with bioluminescence reaches out, and you only hesitate for a moment before taking it and hoisting the monster up.

Oh, Feferi will _never_ believe you.

His iridescent violet tail flops pathetically on the deck as the mermaid—merman? Fuck no, he’s a mermaid, you don’t care about the proper term—coughs and tries to breathe. You see your line disappears into slits on his chest. _Gills_ , you realize, and you think he probably inhaled your hook, meaning the bait must’ve fallen off for the fiftieth fuckin time. He looks at you with unnervingly human purple eyes, mouth gasping for air, and then he croaks out, “Di’ you jus’ call me fat?”

His voice is wrecked and breathless and has a strange accent, but _fuck_ that was _English_. “Stop flopping around and I’ll get the hook out,” you tell him, going to fetch your pliers.

“Why th’ fuck d’ you think I gav-ve up fightin’?” he questions. “Ge’ ‘t out,” he implores before breaking out into a coughing fit. When you come back, it looks like purple Gatorade is leaking from his eyes.

You crouch down next to him and fiddle with the hook for a good ten seconds, but it’s in _deep_. If his choking is any indication, he can’t breathe air, so you’ll dump him in your twenty gallon bait compartment when this is over. Sure, he might inhale a minnow, but he wouldn’t drown on land.

When the hook is as loose as you can get it in thirty seconds, you _yank_ , and with a sickening _squelch_ it comes free, coated in deep blue blood. The mermaid _screams_ , using up the rest of his air and revealing jagged teeth before his eyes roll back in his head and he falls unconscious.

You drag him to your bait tank, leaving a trail of blood in your wake. His gill is leaking pretty badly, and you wonder if he’ll die before you can sell him to some fancy collector. There has to be a market for his kind, and this dude is going to make you even _richer_ than you already are.


	9. Clarinet Practice; John/Karkat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember when John tried to teach Karkat how to play the clarinet?

The nauseating  _squawk_  that fills the room makes you cringe as a laugh builds in your chest. With his cheeks puffed out, face red, and thick eyebrows severely drawn together, Karkat is blowing into your clarinet hard enough that you think the reed might splinter. (You’ve never heard of that happening, but if anyone could do that, it  _would_  be Karkat.) “Dude,” you wrap your fingers around his wrist, and he stops to glare at you. “Okay, there were so many things wrong with that, I don’t even know where to begin.”  
  
“Oh, really?” he says sardonically, contempt dripping from his tone. “I never would’ve guessed, fuck, I guess my critical thinking skills aren’t what they used to be. Standardized testing rots your brain, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Please, enlighten me, oh mighty clarinet guru.”  
  
You hold up a finger and clear your throat. “First of all, your  _left_  hand goes on top, not your right.” He grumbles as his hands switch position. “Don’t smash the register key, you’re not nearly ready for that yet. You had way too much mouthpiece in your mouth, and you need to curl your bottom lip under a bit more and don’t inflate your cheeks. Bite down, and don’t cover any of the holes with your fingers just yet. Keep your elbows closer to your body; this isn’t marching band, you don’t need to be perfectly erect.”  
  
“That was not a good enough reason to use that word,” Karkat deadpans.  
  
Rolling your eyes, you fight a grin and tell him, “Now show me playing position, but don’t blow.”  
  
This time, he looks quite a bit better, in terms of posture. “Don’t bite your  _upper_  lip, that’ll just make it bleed. And  _elbows down_.”  
  
His sigh rubs against the reed, and his arms come closer to his body. “Good,” you praise, “now don’t blow so hard. You might knock some screws loose, and I just brought it in for a tune-up.”  
  
Taking a deep breath, he blows into the instrument and produces a wobbly, shitty-toned G.  
  
You hoot a laugh, your clapping only a little bit sarcastic. “Pretty flat,” you critique, “but not entirely awful! Good job, Karkat! Now, do you want to learn ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ or ‘Hot Cross Buns’ first?”  
  
He takes the clarinet out of his mouth, and a trail of spit stretches from his lip to the mouthpiece. You are going to have to wash that thing  _thoroughly_  later. “What about the one that goes, uh…” He coughs a little. “DUH dun DUH dun DUH dun. Duh DA DA dan—”  
  
Karkat might be tone deaf. His voice is monotonous and unpleasant, but you know what he’s talking about. “‘Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel’ is a bit out of your league right now. ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ it is!”


	10. DUI; Eridan/Terezi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember that time Eridan got a DUI and tried to convince Terezi to get him out of his JUST PUN1SHM3NT, and she was having none of it because 4 L3G1SL4C3R4TOR LOV3S TH3 L4W 4BOV3 4LL 3LS3?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made Terezi a bottom-rung legislacerator, which is the troll equivalent of a cop. Using the word "cop", however, is a culling offense. Good thing Eridan only thinks it.

You fucked up.  
  
You fucked up so hard.  
  
In your opinion, it should all be defunct, because it’s your  _wriggling day_ ; of course you’re going to go a bit crazy! You’re also on planetside leave for the first time since heading off to the Academy for military training, so that’s double the reason to go nuts! No one needed to call the cops over a shitty parking job!  
  
“Excuse me!” you call, stomping over to the woman inspecting your hovercraft. It’s the same personal vehicle that you got sometime during your seventh sweep. You wanted to spend most of your money on a space ship when you were old enough to purchase one (you’re at ten sweeps now; you’re two away), so you haven’t upgraded your land vehicle since you bought it. However, it may need a repair for a ding or two it sustained tonight, but the damage isn’t too bad.  
  
As you make your way over to the scene of  _her_  crime, you almost twist your ankle stepping off a curb. You go down as gracefully as you can manage, blinking at the sudden shift in gravity before getting up, dusting yourself off with as much dignity as you can muster, and continuing on your way. The dumb bitch leaning against your craft is cackling, and you scowl as you see the accents in her uniform mark her as teal.  
  
“W-what the fuck is this?” you question, gesturing at the piece of paper tucked under a windshield wiper.  
  
“Parking citation, Mr. Sourgrapes,” the troll informs you, glee tinging her tone. Narrowing your eyes, you lean forward, getting right in her face.  
  
You sway dangerously for a few seconds before you can identify her. “ _Pyrope_.”  
  
“Well done!” she exclaims with a hoot. “I hope you’re not driving that anytime soon.”  
  
“I can an’ I w-will.” Ripping the ticket away, you crumple it up and toss it on the ground before unlocking the door with your fingerprint. She just watches (or smells? Fuck, she’s blind, right? Did that even happen or did you imagine it?) you get in, and you tell her over your shoulder, “Jus’ ignore that, as a w-wriggin’ day gift.” Starting the engine, you drive off.  
  
Not even thirty seconds later, there are flashing lights behind you, and you groan loudly before pulling over and rolling down your window. She pops up immediately, and you demand, “ _W-what_ , Ter?”  
  
She holds up a little black box with a clear tube sticking out of it, grinning that maniacal grin of hers. You kind of want to kiss it off. Or pap it off. Or something. Squinting, you question, “W-what’s that?”  
  
“It’ll tell me if you’re lying about it being your wriggling day,” she tells you cheerfully. “Now blow into the tube!”  
  
You take a deep breath and give it a  _blow_  job (heh heh).   
  
When she looks at the reading on the screen, her face drops, and a smug smirk worms its way onto your face. Now she has to let that parking ci-citi- _whatever_  go because she knows it  _is_  indeed your wriggling day. “You have a BAC of  _.19_ , Eridan,” she tells you, knocking the box (oh she  _lied_  to you, it was a fuckin  _breathalyzer_ ) against her forehead in frustration. “You’re fucked.”  
  
By the time she’s done with you, there’s a parking citation, a littering fine (because you threw said parking citation on the ground), and a DUI soiling your good name. You just curl up in your seat and pout as she writes the tickets, interjecting a whining, “But it’s my  _wriggling day_ ,” every once in a while to make her feel guilty. It doesn’t work.  
  
When she’s almost done, you come up with another brilliant idea. Fef dumped you sweeps ago, so it’s not like you’re pale-cheating if you try to lay it on thick. You blow your eyes wide, your glasses helping magnify them to make the violet stand out and show her how sorry and pitiable you are, and make your bottom lip tremble a bit. “W-well, Ter, it’s all that brigand V-Vriska’s fault, anyw-way, she said she could take more shots of grubw-whiskey than me, and—”  
  
Surprisingly, she holds up a hand. You blink owlishly, trying to understand why she’d stop your tirade against her scorned sister. “Look, Eridan, I can’t just smell the other way for this. You are  _so far gone_.”  
  
“Am not,” you counter, crossing your arms over your chest. “ _You_  are. And so's your lusus.” Wait, aren’t you supposed to be nice to her so she’ll let you go? Frowning, you reach out to touch one of her horns as comfort. “That w-was mean, I’m sorry.”  
  
She slaps your hand away, and you yelp like a baby barkbeast and scoot away from her. “Ter, I thought w-we  _had_  something.”  
  
“Just because I actually  _speak_  to you doesn’t mean I’m dripping pale all over the place,” she tells you, and your bottom lip starts to wobble. “Maybe you can make it up to me.”  
  
“Or maybe you could let me go..?” you hedge.  
  
“The law is not kind to perpetrators such as yourself,” she says, knocking you between the horns with her pen. You whimper. “Justice will be served, your craft will be towed, and I’ll give you a ride home. Or to the ocean, at least.”  
  
You release a put upon sigh and get out of your hovercraft, locking it up. “You better not hurt my baby.”  
  
“I think you already did a decent job of that,” she responds, pointing her nose in the direction of your front bumper that  _might_  be hanging off and scraping the ground.  
  
Sniffling, you thrust your chin in the air for effect, but all it does is make you feel dizzy. “W-whatev-ver, can w-we go?”  
  
“Your stutter is a lot more prevalent when you’re drunk,” she notes, handing you the tickets.   
  
You stuff them in your wallet and set a reminder on your phone to pay them later. “It’s not a stutter, it’s an  _accent_.”  
  
“It’s  _definitely_  a stutter.” Taking a little bit of pity on you, she grabs your hand and leads you to her hoverbike. She gets on and you slide into place behind her, wrapping your arms around her ribs and pillowing your cheek on her hair. You can tell your sigh tickles the base of her horn when she wiggles. “This would be a teensy bit endearing if you weren’t shittastically drunk right now, but since you are, you’re not getting any points from me, mister.”  
  
You hug her tighter when she starts the bike and rockets off. The only thing you can think about as you fly through the air is,  _don’t throw up don’t throw up don’t throw up don’t throw up don’t throw up_.


	11. Sugar Daddy; Karkat/Dualscar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember when Karkat met Eridan's ancestor/dad for the first time and realized how much hotter he was?

You sigh yet again, following it with discontented grumbling as you stare out the car window. The fifth Cracker Barrel of the hour flies by, and you bang your head on the glass. “Don’t leave smudges,” Eridan chastises from the driver’s seat, turning the radio up a little bit louder. “I just had this entire car cleaned.”  
  
“Bluh bluh bluh,” you mock, sitting back up. “Are we almost there?”  
  
“Next exit,” he says, one corner of his mouth tugging up.   
  
Relief swells in your chest. You’re  _so fucking tired_ ; you’d waited for your flight for eighteen hours before they just straight up canceled everything going to LaGuardia with their middle fingers flying high. The monstrous blizzard hitting New York is ruining your fucking Christmas, and you really wanted to see your parents, since you haven’t seen them since August. Eridan is excited to see his too, you know, and you wonder if you’ll be having Christmas Eve dinner at his Dad’s house and Christmas Day at his Mom’s, or what; you feel uncomfortable asking. There aren’t a lot of things you’re afraid to demand answers for, but your roommate’s home life was something you’d learned to avoid whenever possible. It’s a touchy subject for him.  
  
You appreciate him inviting you, you really do. You thanked him profusely when he first proposed it, because he had already started the drive home when you called him to say you’d be using the dorm over the holiday, so he drove an hour  _backwards_  to get you and started the trip all over again. You spent the first hour in the car consoling your crying mother, speaking in quiet Spanish so Eridan wouldn’t be able to overhear. Sometimes, you think she hates your decision to go to North Carolina for school, but at the end of the day she still loves you, so it’s all good.  
  
In half an hour, you’re pulling up to a white mansion on the river, and you knew Eridan’s family was  _loaded_  but you didn’t think they were  _this_  pants-shittingly rich. Everything about the property screams  _old money_ , and this place looks like it could’ve been a plantation back in the 1800’s. It’s probably been in the family for a long time, as you know Eridan was raised in the south (he tries so hard to bury his accent, but you live with the guy, so you’ve heard his drawling  _ain’t_ s, slurred with sleep, and you’ve smothered smiles when he gets flustered and suddenly his vowels elongate and a certain hitch enters his tone).  
  
Self-consciousness wells in you for a second, because your shoes are from your sophomore year of high school (and it shows), and your sweater has a big hole in the bottom left corner at the hem, and your jeans are faded and stained. The discomfort only lasts for a second before you decide  _fuck that_ ; feeling sorry for yourself won’t make a money tree sprout in front of your family’s apartment back in New York.  
  
“Dad’s house,” he informs you, tone tinged with distaste. “We’ll be here until Sunday, then Mom’s place is about an hour south in Savannah. You’ll like it better, I think. It’s homier.”  
  
“I’m just glad I’m not sleeping in a damn airport,” you huff, reaching to grab your duffel bag from the backseat. “Eridan, thanks again, really.”  
  
“Thank my dad, he likes it when people grovel,” he says conversationally, and you side-eye him as he gets out of his sleek black Mercedes and locks it. You haven’t opened your door yet, so you have to unlock it, open it, then relock it. By the time you’re starting towards the house, he’s already rang the doorbell.  
  
The man who answers the door doesn’t look a lot like Eridan. Silvery hair, a short, stout stature, and a twirling moustache are not what you expected from Eridan’s war hero dad. As you climb the steps to the porch, they shake hands, and you realize, not for the first time, that you’re an idiot; there’s no way that is Eridan’s father. It’s a butler.  
  
These rich fucks.  
  
“Your father is in the den,” the man says, and Eridan steps inside, handing his two suitcases off to Jeeves (or whatever the hell this guy’s name is, you must’ve missed it) and looking over his shoulder at you to make sure you’re following. The butler lets go of a suitcase to reach for your duffel bag, but you latch onto it tighter. “Nah I’ve got it, it’s okay.”  
  
You flank Eridan to the den, and he knocks four times. “Come in,” a voice calls from inside, and Eridan pushes open the door and motions for you to follow him.  
  
Objectively speaking, Eridan isn’t a  _bad_ -looking guy. He’s about average, and he tries to trick people into thinking he’s hotter than he is by wearing flashy clothes and styling his hair perfectly, but he doesn’t fool you.  
  
In order for heredity to make sense, his mother must be an absolute hag, because the man sitting in the high-backed leather chair smoking a cigar is quite possibly the most attractive man over fifty you’ve ever laid eyes on.  
  
You’re glad that he pretty much ignores you, because you are definitely gawking. Involuntarily, you feel a stab of pity for Eridan, because he has to look at his hunky dad and think,  _I am the least attractive male in my family_. No wonder he’s an insecure fuckhead.   
  
Ampora Senior’s eyes are the deepest blue you’ve ever seen. The gray at his temples makes him see wise rather than old, and his hair—like his son’s—is dark and styled to perfection, though it lacks the dumb bleach blond streak Eridan has in his. He has two scars above one eye that make him seem rugged, and his sideburns are sharp and trimmed to perfection. You see bits of Eridan in him—his strong jawline, his brow, his large ears—but, unlike his progeny, his nose doesn’t take up half his face.  
  
Eridan must’ve said something to bring attention to you, because his father lays his piercing gaze on you, and you think you might melt into a puddle of lust on the floor. Swallowing, you extend a hand. “My name is Karkat Vantas, sir. You have a…”  _Fantastic ass._  “Um, lovely home.”   
  
“Thank you, it’s been in the family for generations,” he responds, and then goes on a tangent about his family bloodline and his history of the house, and you listen because his voice is like chocolate being poured onto velvet.   
  
He ends up giving you a tour, Eridan skulking along behind you to add sardonic comments every once in a while. You sit down to tea at around four, and when you refer to him as Mr. Ampora, he tells you to call him Cronus.  
  
You  _swoon_.  
  
“You’re crushin’ on my dad,” Eridan accuses you later, when you’re in his room rifling around in his game case. “You are in the throes of passion for  _my fifty-five year old father_.”  
  
Ah yes, there's that bit of southern accent. “He’s a very attractive man,” you defend yourself, picking out a couple of N64 games you haven’t played since you were ten.  
  
“That’s fuckin  _disgusting_.”  
  
“There’s no stepmom in the picture, right?” you ask, just to pick on him more than anything else. It’s fun to see him bristle like a startled cat. “I’m going to elope with Cronus, and we’re going to get a yacht and sail to the Galapagos to raise tortoises and fish our lives away.” You spread your arms in front of you like you’re presenting yourself. “Just call me Papa!”  
  
He chucks a controller at your head, and you barely manage to duck it in time. Laughing, you fall onto his bed and tell him that if he wants his dusty game cartridges to work right, he has to go blow on them.  
  
The next day, you discover an indoor swimming pool, and you start plotting to wrangle your new sugar daddy into a speedo.


	12. Eat; Eridan/Tavros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember when Eridan ate Tinkerbull, thus resulting in Tavros ending their kismessitude because his hatred for the seadweller went beyond black?

When you return to your hive, all the lights are off, even though you explicitly remember leaving some on. That puts you on high alert, and you’re about to call out for your lusus when you hear a clatter in the food preparation block. You ready your strife specibus as you creep through the main room and towards the sound, lance prepared. The entire way, you curse your metal feet for making too much noise when you’re trying to be stealthy. You’re surprised Tinkerbull hasn’t come out to see you.

Even in the dim light, you can see the obnoxious streak of purple in the hair of the troll sitting at your dining table, so you relax and flick on the lights. At least it’s your kismesis and not some random intruder. “You could’ve called ahead, you know,” you tell him, putting a grocery bag down on the counter. “But I should’ve known, that you don’t know what common courtesy is.”

Eridan snorts, lifting up a fork to put something in his mouth. He’s using your Pupa Pan poster as a tablecloth, and you frown at the sight. You love that poster. The plate he’s eating off isn’t yours (it’s too nice, and you think there’s a seashell pattern around the edge; you’ll break it later), and he pops another piece of meat into his mouth. You don’t really know why he’s giving you such a challenging look, so you step closer so you can see his food better. It looks like regular meat, but there’s other stuff surrounding the plate as well.

You squint to see the garnishes. When you realize what the diaphanous ovals are— _wings_ , those are very familiar looking _wings_ —you almost throw up all over the place. Moving closer, you see two white horns near the top of the plate, a nose ring holding them together. The screeching noise that rips from your throat is enraged and strangled, strange for even a troll. Eridan flinches back, and you don’t delight in it like you normally would because—

Because—

“ _You’re eating Tinkerbull!_ ” you wail, grabbing desperately at your horns. For once, you’re not comforted.

“Yeah,” he says, fighting to sound nonchalant. “He tastes like steak, but like, the shitty cuts that you only feed to barkbeasts.”

“I thought that maybe, one day, I’d come home, and you would’ve fed him to Gl’bgolyb,” you tell him, lower lip starting to tremble dangerously, “but… but… _YOU’RE EATING MY LUSUS_!”

He holds up another forkful of meat, and you whimper involuntarily. “Want a bite?”

With another shriek, you’re pulling out your lance and charging forward. Your spade has _shattered_ ; you don’t just _hate_ him, you want to kill him so thoroughly that Gamzee will never need to get violet paint ever again. “We’re. So. _Over_!” you exclaim, and he jerks back in surprise, unbalancing the chair and toppling to the ground. You run him through, pinning him to the floor, and he gasps and opens and closes his mouth like a dumb fish, looking up at you in agonized astonishment.

You have no pity for him. Not anymore.

Maybe you were always a little bit of a sadist, because you love listening to him die. It takes him almost twenty minutes to go—stupid sea dweller resilience—and when his eyes glaze over and his chest stops heaving, you allow yourself to gather Tinkerbull’s horns and wings and nose ring. Clutching them to your chest, your head droops as you burst into tears that won’t stop for a long, long time.


	13. Possessed; Gamzee/Karkat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember when Gamzee kept getting possessed by every type of supernatural being and Karkat got tired of all these motherfucking spirits in his motherfucking friend?

You’re kicking Gamzee’s ass in Mortal Kombat, which isn’t really an accomplishment. He just stares at the TV, moving the left stick back and forth and hitting a button every once in a while as you annihilate him. You honestly think he’s more interested in the scantily-clad warrior woman he’s playing as than actually trying to defeat you.  
  
Though you don’t really blame him. Trying to beat you is a lost cause.  
  
During what you’re sure is to be the final round, he stops trying at all. “Come on, you pile of dingus, at least make a  _tiny_  effort,” you snap, putting down your controller to look at him just as the process begins. His pupils bleed into his irises before engulfing the whites of his eyes, creating black pits in his face as his head swivels to look at you. Gone is his slumped posture and lazy smile; his back is ramrod straight, his mouth set into a grim line. “I am Abaddon,” Gamzee’s voice says. There’s a certain affliction to his speech that tells you it’s not him doing the talking. “I am the King and the Destroyer—”  
  
“You know what?” you cut him off, holding up a hand. The thing in Gamzee’s body blinks slowly. “I don’t need to hear the spiel. I’ve heard it a hundred different times from a hundred different demons and spirits—and maybe an angel or two, who knows!—so, as you could imagine, great and powerful lord of the underworld you are, I’m a little tired of hearing all the pompous doomsday speeches.”  
  
The grim slash of his mouth twitches in annoyance. “Do you understand who you are talking to, boy?”  
  
“It would be impossible for me to convey,” you deadpan, subtly taking out your phone and pulling up a note you have saved on your phone, “the mass of fucks I do not give. I could try drawing you a diagram, but I’ll warn you, my art skills match those of Tavros’ eight-year-old sister.”  
  
“I am the Commander of Locusts, the…”  
  
He drones on and on. The problem with a lot of these millennia-old demons is they love monologuing too much. As he goes off on his tangent about burning the Earth and its people to cinders, you glance down at your notes and start muttering the prayer you practically have memorized at this point. “ _Priinceps gloriosissime cælestis militiæ, sancte Michaël Archangele, defende nos…_ ”  
  
Gamzee’s face is red with indignation by the time you finish the invocation with a  _magno_  (the first time you ever had to exorcise a demon, you said “mango”, and that was not a good day). Blanching, his face turns whiter than fresh snow as he coughs up black bile. His eyes roll back in his head as he falls back against the couch. A few seconds later, he blinks, and the black has seeped from his eyes; they’re back to their normal, muddy brown. Gamzee looks at you, slightly awed, before grinning like a buffoon. “Hey there, best friend.”  
  
“You need to look into anti-possession tattoos or something,” you sigh, smacking him upside the head. He just laughs. “I’m serious, I’m so tired of this shit.”  
  
He opens his mouth to reply, but then his expression goes slack, his eyes filling in with blackness once again. Turning to you, the spirit says, “My name is Mikhail, and I need to get revenge on my murderer.”  
  
The groan of exasperation you unleash would make people think  _you’re_  the one that’s possessed.


	14. Shipwreck; Eridan/Feferi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember when Eridan and Feferi first met?

  
Sunken ships are not a novelty around here—you’d say there are about five in a two-mile radius from your hive. Though one is on land, the rest are all buried under the sea, and since the ocean is your playground, you’ve explored them all. Aquatic lusii without charges used to flourish in them, but when you started having to cull them to feed your gargantuan lusus, most know to avoid shipwrecks. The area around your hive is all but empty of lusii, and soon you’ll start having to venture further away from your usual hunting grounds to feed Gl’bgolyb.  
  
Today is a hunting day, and you’ve come up empty so far. To be thorough, you check the old ship furthest from your hive, just to be sure an errant shellbeat or blubberbeast hasn’t moved in recently. You swim inside through a glassless porthole, your wide hips barely managing to scrape through. Checking the galley and captain’s quarters proves futile, but just as you move towards the lower levels, you hear a clatter in a storage room, ripples from the blast barely brushing against your skin. Hope swelling within you, you propel yourself towards the commotion.  
  
You do not find a lusus when you enter the storage room. You find a troll.  
  
He’s scrappy and small, with glasses and a nose too big for his face and fins that flare in a threat display when you enter. Giggling, you think he shouldn’t be trying to make you cower, seeing as he’s trapped under a collapsed bookcase, solid iron cannonballs, and an _anchor_. You wonder why the latter thing was up there; maybe it was an antique on display.  
  
Wiggling your fins, you ask, _“Need some help?”_  
  
By the way he blinks at you owlishly, you don’t think he understood. What kind of _sea dweller_ doesn’t understand _finspeech_? Is he some kind of idiot? You’re about to swim closer when he has an epiphany, fins drooping then perking back up to say, _“What?”_  
  
 _“I can get all that off you,”_ you say, drifting further into the room. _“Are you hurt?”_  
  
 _“Not hurt,”_ he proclaims. _“Heavy stuff.”_  
  
His sentences are so stunted that you don’t think he’s ever talked that way before. You wonder if he uses his vocal cords instead, but that would mean he’d live on land, seeing as the only thing you can do with yours is GLUB. _“Let me help,”_ you request, kicking your feet to bring yourself closer.  
  
He goes rigid, and you lift your hands placatingly, trying to show that you don’t mean him harm. Grabbing the shelf on top of him and the rest of the debris, you try to push it up. It is very heavy, and a cannonball that was lodged between the side of the shelf and a bit that wraps around the front rolls off, sinking down to hit his back. It would hurt a lot more on land, you think, but a couple of bubbles still leak from his mouth in a surprised _glub_.  
  
You manage to get one of your shoulders braced against the underside of the bookcase. Coiling like a spring, you push off the floor and lift the shelf off him, returning it to its original position against the wall. It should be easy work, now.  
  
He’s already started pushing cannonballs aside, but his leg and a corner of his ridiculous purple cape are still pinned under the large anchor. It’s a Danforth, and somehow one of his legs managed to wedge itself between the shaft and the fluke, with the tip of one side of the fluke pinning his cape to the deck. With his help, you hold it up long enough for him to get his leg out from under it before letting it float back down to the floor.  
  
When you turn to look at him, you feel a current go by as he darts to the other side of the room, cape billowing out behind him like an untied sail. He stops by the door, turning back to you with a stormy expression. You see him swallow, and you twine your fingers together in front of you and smile, kindly urging him to say something. He tears at his bottom lip with his teeth, looking down and wiggling a feeble, _“Thank you.”_  
  
 _“What’s your name?”_ you ask. _“Mine’s Feferi Peixes, and I’m two sweeps old!”_  
  
He still seems hesitant, but he answers, _“Eridan Ampora. Same.”_  
  
Your smile widens into a beaming grin, and his lips quirk upward in return. Bracing his feet on the doorway, he pushes off, launching back into the corridor of the ship.  
  
You don’t know if he expected you to follow, but you do.


	15. Burn; Aranea/Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Remember when Rose explained what the Library of Alexandria was to Aranea just so she could make her cry about the whole thing burning down?

“Imagine,” you say, “a center of knowledge for an ancient world, with thousands upon thousands of works—mostly stolen—from around the planet.”  
  
Aranea’s eyes widen, and you smile, glad to have properly ensnared her. “In a time before any sort of easy communication between civilizations, the library represented a display of wealth for a country called Egypt, but it also served to aid its leaders.”  
  
“So it was during an archaic time, correct?” she says, eyes gleaming with interest. “Like Alternia, say… a hundred sweeps before the Signless Sufferer?” Absentmindedly, she picks at the pendant hanging around her neck.  
  
“Yes, probably,” you say, “though I don’t know troll history nearly as well as you do, so I can’t say for certain. While its main purpose was as an archive, it also housed many great scholars that worked there, doing scholarly things and such.” You wave a hand nonchalantly. “A lot of things about it are left to rumor, but its purpose was to amass the most complete collection of books in the world, and I like to think that it succeeded. It contained the most influential writings of the time period, as well as history and information that was held nowhere else in the world.”   
  
“What was it called?” she asks, still enraptured.  
  
“The Royal Library of Alexandria,” you tell her, “and it burned.” Her smile twitches. “Everything was lost.”  
  
It takes a few seconds for this to sink in. Aranea’s expression drops gradually, and by the time you doubt it can fall anymore, her large eyes are filled to the brim with blue-tinged tears, her lips pulled downward in a devastated snarl as her fingers twine together in front of her. She tries to clench her fists, and her claws sink into her skin. “No, you’re lying to me to get a reaction from me!” she exclaims. You feel like she wants to stamp her foot in indignation. “People would never… How could anyone… Oh, that’s _awful_!” she wails.  
  
“Isn’t it?” you say lightly, as if you didn’t break down sobbing in front of your computer screen when you first read about it when you were ten. “We will never know everything it contained. Not that it matters now, anyway.” You cringe at the bitterness that leaked into your tone.  
  
Smirking at your victory, you wonder if you hadn't blackflirted a little bit _too_ hard. At least you know someone else appreciates the horridness that is a burned library.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Family Inheritance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2282922) by [MorriganFearn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorriganFearn/pseuds/MorriganFearn)




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